


Rita's Blessing

by Northisnotup



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, Comedy of Errors, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Other, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Nureyev
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup
Summary: First rule of thieving:Do your own research.First rule of thieving:Know what your mark wants.First rule of thieving:Know what you, yourself, want.What Peter Nureyev wants is to wake up next to Juno Steel every day for the rest of his life. He wants to travel the galaxy at his side, day after day, until death at last parts them. He wants so deeply and with such fervor it weighs on his heart like nothing else, save the ring, which stays always in one of his many pockets, feeling like a star attempting to collapse in on itself.Andthatis the problem.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 84
Kudos: 230





	1. Rita

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stubborn_jerk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubborn_jerk/gifts).



> SJ, my dear. SJ, my darling. SJ - with the patience of a saint. I promised SJ this fic back in MAY, as a trade for a side-fic in their 'Juno Steel's hot girl summer' piece. It was supposed to be small, and then kept growing. It was done, roughly, at the ass end of August. It's been...a while ride. Through lockdown, reopening, my work being flooded - both literally and figuratively, and illness (non COVID related) in the family. And SJ has been such an amazing cheerleader through it all.
> 
> SJ I cannot thank you enough for the gift this fic has been. I honestly think it's one of the best thing's I've ever written and I would have never gotten the chance if not for you, because when you presented me with this idea, I wasn't immediately taken with it and thought - 'oh, this'll be like 5k tops, just smth small and silly' and it turned into a really sweet story that I put a lot of heart into.

First rule of thieving: _Do your own research._

First rule of thieving: _Know what your mark wants._

First rule of thieving: _Know what you, yourself, want._

Nureyev's mental filing cabinet shuffles through all the first rules he's ever learned, attempting to find the one that best fits, one that will settle him, one that will solidify the plan in his mind from something that may or may not work to one that will.

There is no reason for him to be as agitated as he is. No reason for him to be so unsettled, so flighty so...so—!

"Baby?" Juno murmurs, reaching for him with slow, sleep heavy limbs. "Y'okay?"

Ah, he hadn't thought his inability to sleep was that obvious, but even half asleep Juno's mind follows patterns, and unlike most nights, Nureyev is not pressed as close as he can be along Juno's back, matching his breathing and feeling his heart beat against his ribs. 

"Shh," Nureyev soothes, opening his arms to his grumpy lady and helping him to settle in, now sprawled across Nureyev's torso with one thickly muscled thigh hooking possessively over his hip. "It's alright, love. Go back to sleep."

"That," Juno interrupts himself to yawn, trying vainly to muffle it against Nureyev's shoulder, "is not the same as okay." 

Juno's lovely skin is creased with lines from the pillow and from where his eyepatch has pressed into his forehead and cheek all day. His deep blue eye is marred with red lines and crusted with sleep. The less said about his breath, the better, and still...Nureyev's been across the galaxy, stolen some of the most priceless works of art, dined with royalty and those who would play at being royalty, been witness to historic events, even seen things most could only dare to dream. And none of it compares to Juno Steel in his arms; only barely awake and spiteful with concern, Juno Steel is still the most beautiful thing Nureyev has ever laid eyes on and.... 

He wants to wake up next to Juno every day for the rest of his life. He wants to travel the galaxy at his side, day after day, until death at last parts them.

He wants so deeply and with such fervor it weighs on his heart like nothing else, save the ring, which stays always in one of his many pockets, feeling like a star attempting to collapse in on itself. The ring which he bought. As in, legally, with a paper trail. Oh, the things one does for love.

And _that_ is the problem.

Patience not being Juno's strong suit, it's not surprising when he gives up on trying to wait Nureyev out and pushes himself up to better stare with that blurry blue eye. While Nureyev would very much like to take this time to admire the way the muscles in his arms flex, holding his weight without protest, he makes himself stay still, allowing Juno to look his fill. Whatever he must see makes him huff, rancid breath caressing Nureyev's cheeks. Leaning forward, he presses a sleep-slack kiss to the edge of Nureyev's mouth, and then flops gracelessly over on the other side of their mattress before Nureyev can catch him and deepen it. "Okay babe, go find mom," he mumbles, "come back when you're ready to talk, okay?" 

Nureyev stifles a sigh and doesn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes now that Juno cannot see him.

Juno's rough, Old Town accent drags the word out, flattening the vowel into a hum more than a word. M-ah-m. And it is exclusively how he refers to Captain Aurinko whenever Nureyev needs to talk to her.

It may have been...not a mistake, but certainly a misstep when considering the sharp, detail oriented mind of his love, to tell him about the various parental figures who have tried to adopt his first name, or whatever that name may have been at the time, as a touchstone. The first time Buddy had called him 'Pete' in front of Juno, his darling detective had lit up, all but vibrating with the strength it took not to tease Nureyev then and there.

Stiffly, Nureyev levers himself out of bed, making a little more noise than the none he could have just to hear Juno whine about it, while surreptitiously checking that the ring is still safe in his pocket. That it survived the transfer from sleep clothes to casual. That his skills have not slipped so brutally he has missed a simple sleight of hand covered by a misdirection. His fingers close around the box just as Juno drags a pillow over his head with a dramatic groan.

He has to resist the urge to get right back into bed and slot himself into place with his heart to Juno’s strong spine. But, as usual, Juno is mostly correct in his assessment of the situation. Nureyev does need to talk to someone.

On near silent, slipper-clad feet, he walks the narrow corridors of their ship, past Jet's room, and then the Captain's, where he turns his attention away from the low and rough murmur of conversation that floats through the closed door. He could, of course, listen in and claim quite truthfully that it was accidental, that the thin walls of the ship — and of course with him unable to sleep... but he won't. For the professional respect he has for the duo if nothing else. He owes them for the tacit bubble of personal space they have given to Juno and himself in the time since first coming on board. More Buddy than Vespa, but still. It’s space they’ve used to communicate, to grow back trust and to grow past that first heady mix of chemistry and connection into true knowledge of one another.

Nureyev thought he had Juno's measure fairly accurately at their first meeting. Both in his own assessment and from the dossier given to him by Agent W.

But knowing Juno Steel is so much different then knowing _of_ him.

So much of what Nureyev thought he knew was re-written that day in the desert, when Juno held his blaster to his own eye and bargained one life for two. And again when…when Juno left him. And again when Juno reappeared in a cloud of Martian dust, and again when he was a vision of cleverness, ingenuity and perseverance in that dress, and again, in times too many to count since then.

He passes Jet in the narrow halls and the man nods at him, one insomniac to another. Nureyev almost stops him, lips parted, before his brain catches up and he nods back, continuing on. 

Juno was right, just as much as he was wrong. He always gets about ninety-eight percent of any puzzle put in front of him, but that final two percent is where he makes or breaks, as it were.

It is not, in fact, Captain Aurinko that Nureyev is seeking, but another genius aboard the ship. One with a much shorter stature — and somehow, a much larger personality.

He's not sure why he imitates Juno's specific knock on the door to Rita's quarters. Nureyev doesn't mean to do it, honestly doesn't even notice until his knuckles are stinging and the overloud rap-rap!-rap is echoing through the corridor.

No response.

Well, that's....not ideal.

Nearly everyone on the Carte Blanche keeps odd hours, Miss Rita included. The only two people aboard who can, usually, be counted on to actually sleep at night being Juno and Vespa.

For a second he flounders, hand poised to knock again — but just as quickly he pulls away.

Although he is hyper aware of the ring in his pocket, it matters very little in the grand scope of things. One more sleepless night will not be the death of him. It won't be ruinous to climb back into bed and fit himself around Juno like a hook into an eye, to spend one more day feeling the pull of 'forever' but content himself with 'today.'

One day more. And one day more. And one day — Nureyev steps away just as the door wrenches open and he is hit with a wall of chatter emerging from what was once white noise his mind skimmed over, too involved in his own thoughts to process the shuffling of what had been Rita getting up and approaching.

"Mistah Steel what _is_ it?” Rita demands, lisping slightly, “You promised you'd call ahead if Mistah Ransom ain't around and you needed to come over in the middle of the night. Not that I don't wanna see you, because I love you very much but it is very late and I was havin' a real great dream about _deep sea fishing_ and I caught a mermaid who was a _princess_ and she was gonna find me a magic pearl that would let me breathe underwater so I could come live with her in _Atlanta_ or whatever that magic mermaid city is called, all because she fell in love with me, and I'd like to get back to it ‘cause..."

Rita squints at him, dragging her eyes from his neck, where they'd been aimed, and up his face. Without the gaudy frames and thick glass that her eyes usually hide behind, her gaze isn't quite as intimidating as Nureyev is used to it being. A bright pink housecoat swamps her tiny frame, matching the silk wrap on her head which bulges with curlers and pins. 

"Oh, Mistah Ransom! Is Mistah Steel okay?"

"Juno is right as Saturn rain, Rita,” his mouth says brightly, without input from his brain, “may I come in?"

"O-oh, well I, I mean —"

"Thank you ever so, dear!" Nureyev sweeps in while she is sputtering, and then forces himself to reel it in, standing still, lips parted on a soundless sigh.

As much as he would like to say it was the mess that stopped him, that would be disingenuous. It's true, Rita's room looks like the wreckage after a hurricane, and it's equally true that standing still inside of it feels like occupying the eye of a whirling storm. 

But that isn't why he's stopped.

"Mistah Ransom?"

It takes conscious effort to let the guise of who she expects to see fall away. He rolls his shoulders until they feel looser than the stiff-backed posture of Rex Glass but more real than the feigned ease of Peter Ransom. He doesn't scrub his hands across his face physically — one wouldn’t want to _wrinkle_ after all — but the mental image of it works just as well to smear Glass' smug, knowing smile off his lips and to smooth the gaily arched brow of Peter Ransom.

In what little defense Nureyev can give himself, he never means to treat Rita like a mark.

"My apologies, Rita. I didn't mean to disturb your rest," he says shortly.

"Mistah Ransom?" She blinks those wide, umber eyes, uncomprehending, and Nureyev feels the sharp flush of embarrassment climb up his neck.

"It's nothing that cannot wait until morning, I assure you."

"But, Mistah —"

"Sweet dreams, Rita. Please, do come find me tomorrow, at your leisure of course, though I would appreciate some measure of discretion —"

"Mistah-Agent Rex-Peter Glass-Ransom!"

Nureyev blinks, automatically his body moves to step to the side but Rita steps with him and he realizes that he has, again, been bulldozing her. It’s one of the most effective tactics he knows, and one that is so deeply ingrained it is as near to an autopilot as he has.

 _How very mercenary,_ the Captain’s voice echoes in his ears. 

First rule of thieving: Play to your natural advantages. If you have none, make some. 

Mag’s method of conning was to play up his features. His large eyes and wide, guileless smile. He made the perfect ‘kindly old man,’ and his marks were usually happy to help him across the street or carry his groceries and would give him all the information he needed under the guise of polite chit-chat.

As a child, Nureyev emulated those tactics. He had a shining, gap-toothed smile and his dark eyes seemed huge in his face, still rounded with baby fat and naivete. But as he grew, his features sharpened and his smile lost some of its innocent shine.

It had been startling to him, the first time a mark leaned further into his space, talking over him and refusing to take the gentle hints that he gave. 

That day, Nureyev learned how to use this new face. That the sweet, leading tactics he was used to wouldn’t work with the new way he was perceived. He learned what it was to hunt, rather than fish. To use the force of his charisma and dazzle his marks so thoroughly they were left shaky and confused in his wake, still processing the wave of personality that had crashed over them. 

"I don't know if I can help you,” Rita says, sounding absolutely miserable. Nureyev covers a wince and is quite thankful that this is as private a conversation as one may have on the Carte Blanche. Rita's room is no more insulated than the rest of their rooms, but it has the virtue of being bookended by the empty one that once belonged to Juno and the one bathroom on this god forsaken ship. Several spiraling thoughts war for his attention. All detailing how hurting Rita, however unintentionally, would hurt his standing in the crew...and with Juno. 

"Don’t get me wrong, I _want_ to and I'm glad you came to me because it means you trust me and that is so flattering 'cause you're really, really, smart, but —"

It is impossible not to admire Rita. Be it for her bubbling optimism or her truly impressive skill. 

When Buddy had said that Juno's secretary was to be their next recruit he hadn't been certain what to think. On the one hand, she was gullible; easy to manipulate, and that could bode well for him. On the other, she was intelligent enough to land on Buddy Aurinko's radar on her own merits. Nureyev knew first hand how sharp her mind could be — the make of his gear was not readily available information, and yet she had been able to find enough to tell Juno sometime in between the discovery of Croesus Kanagawa and the arrest of Cassandra Kanagawa.

Even when thinking as badly of Juno as he did then, he had no reason to believe she would be openly hostile towards him when they met, but...

"— I'm just not comfortable comin' in-between your and Mistah Steel's lover's tiffs!"

What.

"What?"

"The thing is, Mistah Ransom, I know I'm Mistah Steel's very-best-friend and he ain't the easiest to get along with so I'm sure it makes _sense_ to get the perspective of someone older, and wiser, and prettier than he is, but —" 

Nureyev blinks, listening in an almost bewildered sort of awe as she continues, earnestly warning him about her complete inability to be unbiased when it comes to 'Mistah Steel,' while hinting obliquely to Juno's tendency of self sabotage and cautioning him to patience. He senses this could continue for some time and, seeking to cut her off at the pass, pulls out his trump card, flicking open the ring box with a showy flourish.

As he thought, Rita cuts herself off with a gasp. "Mistah Ransom!”

But, in a surprising twist that it is possible he should have seen coming, doesn't slow down a whit. Instead she changes directions and charges forward without pause. “I ain't that kinda gal! And even if I was, well you're very handsome and very smart and very competent but you're also kinda tall and skinny, and —"

Nureyev mouths the word 'skinny' to himself in astonishment.

Is this what he does to other people? Is this how it feels? How...interesting.

"— pointy and that works for some people and it _clearly_ works for Mistah Steel who loves you very much and I cannot _believe_ you would do this to him....Oh! Waitaminute you _wouldn't_ do this to him! Ain't no one who looks at someone like you look at Mistah Steel would propose to someone else out of blue, so..."

There is a certain deep satisfaction that hits as Rita's eyes blow wide and her mouth, still stained with the pink of the lipstick she wears everyday, drops open.

"You!" She points at him. "You're gonna!"

It's not a question but he nods anyway.

"And he's gonna?"

"I hope so."

The expected squeal of glee never comes and instead, Nureyev is treated to a look of intense concentration as she looks him up and down, taking in the stars only know what. But as is usual with Rita, he doesn't have to wait long at all before her mouth gets the better of her mind and her thoughts come tumbling out like an avalanche. 

"Mistah Ransom, this isn’t just because Mz. Captain Buddy keeps making you and Mistah Steel married on missions, is it? Because wantin’ it to be real beyond a mission is super sweet but maybe not the best —"

He cuts Rita off as gently as he can, _very_ aware that if he allows it her ramblings will continue on until she distracts herself with another topic. "No. Truth be told, it's been on my mind for...a long time. Perhaps not seriously at first, but," he pauses when he realizes that telling Rita about the Rose’s was on the tip of his tongue.

How he'd made the IDs on a lark, filled with the daring after a quick get away and driven by the memory of a searing kiss. (The way Juno's lips were chapped and the way he tasted like the cheap whiskey he drowned in, how he melted against Nureyev's chest and the sweet, helpless noises he made...) How the first thing he'd done after leaving Juno with a name only the dead knew was forge a set of identities where they were legally bound. How he planned a million little incidental ways in which to bring Juno Steel back into his path and ended up acting on none of them, trusting fate or Juno's own curiosity to bring them together again. The risks he took and the bridges he burned making sure that his mistakes didn't echo onto the clever, just detective who could not save the world and viewed that as a personal failing.

"I told him my name," he ends up admitting, aware, so aware, that the look on his face is stupidly besotted and not bothering to hide it. "It wasn’t something he found — I told him. Because I wanted him to know."

"Oh."

Expertly, Rita tiptoes and weaves her way through her creative chaos and to her bed, piled high with soft blankets and quilts that look to be homemade. When she pats the spot beside her, Nureyev hesitates. Old instincts, wary of being trapped. 

But this is Rita.

“It seems to me, Mistah Ransom, that you got somethin’ to say. ‘Cause if you got someone who loves you and you got a ring, there’s gotta be a reason you’re sittin’ on his very best friend’s bed instead of his.”

He waits for the thought to continue, trailing off into some obscure theory or stream special, but she stays silent, hands fidgeting the belt on her robe rather than waving in emphasis or flying over a screen or feeding herself.

“I thought. Well, it’s only polite to. I…” Nureyev stumbles.

Honest truth is still not something that rests light on his tongue. The urge to obfuscate, to dance and peacock and turn Rita’s eyes and attention away weighs heavy on his shoulders.

“Is it ‘cause you think he’s gonna say no?” She offers the thought gently. “Oh! Oh! How are you plannin’ to ask? Cause I watched this stream a few months back and it had the most beautiful music a gal had ever heard and if you need a copy we could play it soft and set the table in the galley and —”

Nureyev huffs. “I’m not here because I’m worried about his answer, Rita.”

He does not mention that he has not, as of yet, considered _how_ one might propose to Juno Steel. Thankfully, Juno is almost certainly aware that it will happen. There are perks to having a lover one can hide nothing from. No need to plan a surprise for someone who hates surprises, after all.

He’s not sure what he expects at that, but it isn’t for her to throw herself backwards, sprawling over the bed and groaning loudly. Her housecoat gapes open and he’s treated to a look at her pajamas — an over-large shirt with an orange cat made out of sequins and the words ‘ _big cats are dangerous but a little pussy never hurt anyone!_ ’ written on it. 

“Mistah Ransom!” she whines, using a pitch he had previously only ever heard her take with Juno. “I know you sometimes need to act things out in front of an audience to work through ‘em and I am really very flattered you chose me and not Miz Captain Buddy but it is _late_ and I was _sleepin’_ and if you ain’t worried about Mistah Steel sayin’ yes then why...?”

Filing away, he is filing those comments away. “Your opinion is very important to Juno, Rita.”

“Well yeah, I’m his best friend.”

 _Act_ in front of an _audience_ , the nerve. “One of them, yes, and as such —”

“His first best friend,” she injects lightly. 

It’s almost as if she says it to herself and not to him, but it’s true and for reasons Nureyev refuses to examine, it rattles him. He spits out his reasoning in a rush, more clipped and harsh and much more honest than anything he would have planned to say.

“I wouldn’t want you to have any misgivings about my feelings or intentions toward Juno.”

Rita hums, “You intend on usin’ that ring to ask my ex-boss and current best friend to marry you, right Mistah Ransom?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” With a grunt of effort, Rita pulls herself back up, folding her short legs under her. “I guess you better tell me what your feelings are then. ‘Cause I know you love Mistah Steel, but that ain’t all there is to a marriage, you know?”

“It...isn’t,” Nureyev admits, tension beginning to leak back into his shoulders.

He hasn’t put much thought into how he would ask; partially, because he is still working up the courage to ask at all.

The ring has been secreted in one of his many ever-changing pockets for over a month now. Almost two, in fact. 

Forty three days of wanting and wishing and making a game of moving the ring around his person in front of Juno, without him noticing. Almost hoping to be noticed. Forty three days of the proverbial cat having his tongue, staying his hand, saying _wait, just wait._

Not now, when he’s cooking dinner, swearing at the splashes of hot oil hitting his forearms. Not now, when he’s sniping with Vespa, their rough edges rubbing each other the wrong way. Not now, when he is soft and sleepy in their bed, telling Nureyev about the nice dream he had, voice filled with wonder because when he dreams about his brother it’s _never_ usually nice.

The timing never felt right, but when will it?

It’s only...

He told Rita he wasn’t worried about Juno’s answer, and he’s not.

But he’s asked Juno to take a chance on the mask of many faces that is Peter Nureyev once before. Not being married to Juno is something he can stand. But to lose Juno entirely? Again? It would ruin something inside of him. Something fragile that rests against the very core of what he is. 

Like so many times in this conversation, he feels as though he has lost sight of his initial goal. “I don’t need to tell you what a wonderful person Juno Steel is,” Nureyev says finally, “and I am certain you already know what it is to love him, perhaps even against your better judgment.”

Rita gives him a patient smile and folds her tiny hands in her lap, the hot pink fluff radiant against the light, sandy brown of her skin. She knows what colours suit her. He almost goes to tell her this and catches himself in the unsubtle topic change.

...Ah. Well then. 

She’s waited out Juno, infamous for his stubborn streak. She will wait out Nureyev’s instinctive need to deflect.

“I…” He grimaces, collects what little of his dignity he can and starts over. “Juno is not the first person to catch me, but he has the unique distinction of being one of the only people to catch me red-handed. To figure out my game while I was still playing it. And the word unique is the perfect word to describe him. Your ‘ex-boss, current best friend’ is one of the most singular people I have ever met, Rita, and I have met a lot of people. I have seen, worked with, and stolen from the very worst of what humanity has to offer. Most people, to go through everything that Juno has, would have hardened, I think, into hate — or worse, into indifference. I almost did. But Juno held on, somehow, to that...that soul of his. He held onto the part of himself that wanted so desperately to do some good he was willing to die to do it. And maybe that wasn’t the best decision he could have made, but I admire it anyway. I fell in love with it. He _is_ a good man, underneath all the misanthropy and hurt.” He sucks in a breath, forces himself to take another for good measure, to slow down his facing heart and cool his face, flushed first with passion and, now, embarrassment. 

“He ain’t like that so much anymore, you know,” Rita smiles. 

“Like what?”

“He’s not as hurt, not as sharp either, that’s thanks to you.”

Nureyev chuckles, resists the urge to run a hand through his hair by reminding himself of his hairline, and then does it anyway. “No, I believe that’s thanks to you.”

“No, I believe that’s thanks to us,” Rita says, mimicking his speech patterns.

She isn’t awful, but he wrinkles his nose anyway and her sharp giggle gives him the courage he needs to continue.

“He changed me, Rita. He likely didn’t mean to, and would never accept the responsibility of doing so. But knowing him - loving him - has changed me, and I will never be sorry about that.”

Beside him, she all but shakes out of her skin trying to keep a mostly neutral face. “So!” she squeaks, and then clears her throat. “We covered your intentions,” she ticks off a finger, “your feelings,” another finger. “Why,” she asks in an announcer voice the likes of which he hasn’t heard since he was held hostage by Cecil Kanagawa, “should Mistah Steel marry you?” 

Rita smiles widely. There’s a smudge of lipstick left on her teeth from today’s shade, a pastel sort of pink that reminded Nureyev of cotton candy.

“I don’t know.” 

There it is. The crux of the issue. The center point of forty three days worth of indecision — any good thief’s death knell.

Her face falls. The round apples of her cheeks deflating and sagging slightly along her deep laugh lines. “What’d’ya mean you don’t know?”

Nureyev shrugs, “I wasn’t lying to you when I said I’m not worried about his answer, Rita,” he says, outwardly calm while his heart rages against his sternum. Laying the bare facts of the matter before the one person who can help him.

He figured that out only yesterday, watching the two of them bicker. Nureyev can’t even remember what they were bickering about, but he remembers the way Rita’s voice became suddenly hushed, her tone full of a warm concern that Juno leaned into rather than flinching away from. He trusts her, implicitly, to guide him, to steady him and to support him. They have been and are still a partnership, the two of them, with patterns and a language all their own. “I’m not afraid of Juno saying no, but quite honestly I have no idea what his answer will be. Or...if I should ask at all.”

“Of course you should ask! Why wouldn’t you?” Rita demands, caught somewhere between anger and despair. “You’re in love and you got a ring and —”

“And I’ve a mountain of debts and a list of aliases as long as my arm,” Nureyev says, matching her strident tone with one that straddles jovial and furious. “Why in all the worlds would he want to marry me? I’m a thief and a murderer and a wanted terrorist -”

He’s spitting the word out before he can stop himself, before he can choke it down and hide it away.

Nureyev looks past her, forcing himself to continue even as the words start to catch in his throat. He couldn’t tell Juno his past in words, he was too much of a coward for that. Juno’s trust in him was too precious and too fragile by far. Juno’s reaction was too important to him. He loved Juno Steel even then. And just as fervently as he’d needed Juno to know him and see him and love him at that time, in that tomb, Nureyev needs Rita to understand him, now.

“Juno wants his life to matter, he wants his actions to have weight and meaning. Now, I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done.”

Liar.

“I’m not ashamed of _most_ of what I’ve done.” Better.

“Mhm.”

“But if Juno says yes, if he marries me, he inherits all my problems. Of which there are many. I believe the traditional Solar vows are: ‘through good times and bad, for richer or poorer?’ Rita, I want you to understand that I would never drag him into my problems.”

Not again.

“In fact, I have gone to not inconsiderable lengths to make sure he is not, at all, implicated in my debts.”

“Sure, sure.”

“And more than that, I’m not an easy person to live with. No need to act surprised, I’m very aware of the particularities I have and bring with me.”

“The apples,” Rita grumbles and Nureyev sighs. 

“It’s a delicacy and they’re really very good that way,” he tries fruitlessly, only stretching the truth by a little. 

“You ain’t feedin’ me rottin’ apples, Mistah Ransom, nice try!”

A smile comes, quite unbidden, as he thinks about the way Juno hesitated over the caramel coloured mush. Even now, as an adult with access to fresh fruit that he never has to worry about being infested or going bad before he eats it, Nureyev still waits until they’re overripe and on the cusp before carefully cutting them up and stewing them, with sugar for longevity and spices to cover the flavor. 

Juno had hesitated, but he tried it anyway when Nureyev mentioned it was as close to a luxury food as it got on Brahma. (And one of the very, very few things Nureyev _can_ actually cook, start to finish.) In return he made Nureyev a dish he’d grown up with, sold from a popular food stall in Old Town. Juno called it ‘spice noodles’ and laughed himself to tears when Nureyev swore the second the fragrant green sauce touched his tongue. The food stall had been owned by his friend’s fathers, Hanumanian immigrants, and if the dish had a proper name, they never told him. They taught him how to make it, though, along with a few others.

Juno isn’t fond of knives in a weaponry sense, but in the kitchen he handles them with a dexterity that speaks of years of practice, his grip sure and his moments precise, even as he adjusted Nureyev’s hands, guiding him through the proper way to rock the knife through cloned meat and vegetables. 

“As I was saying, it’s not as easy to leave a marriage as it is to leave a person,” he manages to sound neutral, if not light. At the very least, the bitterness that would have once coloured his tone no longer coats the back of his tongue. 

“Uh-huh.”

“And if he says no…Well, if he says no I suppose all this melodramatic waffling and taking up your time will have been for nothing.” 

“Yeah, that’s all very interesting Mistah Ransom, but did I ever tell you about the one time Mistah Steel took my glue away and put it in the same drawer that he kept his office toothpaste in, from when he would sleep there and wouldn’t want me to know when I’d come in, and one time he was brushin’ his teeth and he must’ve mixed up the tubes, and then got distracted by a clue or something, ‘cause he ended up gluin’ his toothbrush to his teeth?”

Nureyev's mind stills, caught off guard, and he feels his lashes fluttering as he tries to catch the thread of Rita’s story. “No...no, you never did.”

“And there was this one _other_ time, —”

“Rita, pardon me, not that I want to interrupt, believe me, I want nothing more than to hear every story you have about Juno, but may I ask why you’re bringing this up now?”

Rita smacks her lips together and gains a charming wrinkle between her eyebrows as she affects an overly thoughtful look. “Oh, it’s just — you’re makin’ Mistah Steel sound all...goddess-like. And I love Mistah Steel. He’s one of the smartest, most loyal ladies I know and the best ex-boss-and-current-best-friend a gal can ask for, but he’s also the person who didn’t know that computers had an on-button.”

“Ah,” Nureyev bites out, holding back the sharp, stressed laughter that wants to bubble up. For someone who loves him, Rita commits the second worst character defamations against Juno, just after Juno himself. 

“If you were gonna ask, would you want him to say yes?”

“Yes.” The word leaps from Nureyev’s heart and out of his mouth before his mind can catch up. 

She nods seriously, then giggles — sharp and nasal, almost a snort, like she does when something pleases her, before trying to smooth back into seriousness.

“Then, I guess what’s confusin’ me about all this, Mistah Ransom,” she starts and Nureyev can feel his face becoming a mask of gentle amusement and aimless curiosity in preparation for what comes next. 

There is no easy answer to, ‘why are you in my room in the middle of the night to talk in circles about proposing to my best friend?’

There should be. He’s spent over a month tearing himself into shreds over this idea, this ring, this question he has yet to summon the courage to ask.

He’s said more important things to Juno without half the whining. ‘I trust you,’ for instance. ‘I love you,’ for another. Telling Juno his name had been the easiest thing in the world and the first time he’d heard Juno say it...

Well, compared to that, ‘Will you marry me?’ should be a walk in the park.

“Is that you haven’t told me why _you_ wanna get married.”

What.

“What?” 

Again, Rita takes him by surprise, asking a question he hadn’t thought would need to be asked at all.

“Juno Steel,” she says, affecting a low, growling tone that isn’t dissimilar to the lady she's imitating, “he’s a tough cookie with a long history of breakin’ hearts.” She bounces back to her normal register, “And talking to himself, but then to you but then to himself and expectin’ you to tell the difference, and sleepin’ in the office when he should’a been in bed hours ago but instead he decided to work himself to the bone, and goin’ to the library to look things up he could’ve just looked up on a computer but then he would’ve had to ask for help, and forgetting to take care of his hair and then whining when I gotta use the hot oil, and says he doesn’t want any snacks but then eats my chocolate even though I _asked_ if he wanted anything from the store!” 

Another wave of remarks both precisely accurate and ruthlessly cutting wash over him, but what sticks out, catching on Nureyev’s thoughts is, “Did you just call him —”

“Look, my point is, are you _sure_ you wanna sign up for that, all day, every day, for the rest of your life?” 

“More than anything,” he says, immediate and without thought.

She squints at him, leaning forward into his space. “And you’re _sure_?”

Nureyev makes no attempt to stop the fond amusement he feels from creeping onto his face for Rita to see. He could. But he doesn’t. “Juno’s many, lovely, peculiarities are not news to me. They weren’t even when we started...this.”

Again, he catches himself wanting to indulge in the sillier details of Juno’s pearl clutching over Nureyev’s lack of body shyness in The Oasis, his snappish retorts, and — the way he’d looked at Nureyev in the harsh desert light, not hesitating in the slightest to plant himself firmly on Nureyev’s side and at his back. Finally extending his faith and accepting in turn the faith Nureyev had placed in him. How in the tomb Juno had responded best to soft words and coaxing tones but he didn’t trust them. He’d bark at Nureyev’s fussing but wouldn’t bite, staying still as Nureyev tried to be gentle while wiping the blood away from his eye and nose and mouth. And responded in kind, movements hesitant but hands soft when he cared for Nureyev’s own wounds.

Rita hums under her breath, waiting patiently for him to get to the point, her bushy, imperfect eyebrows raised in expectation.

He wonders for a bare moment whether she would let him shape them before dragging himself back to task.

“I have pulled him from research and tucked him into bed, we’ve shared laundry and secrets, I hide snacks just so that he will find them because you know how he gets when he has nothing to occupy himself — we come home to conspiracy webs on the walls and rearranged sock drawers. Yes, I know what I am getting into, Rita. And I look forward to every second of it.”

It’s even the truth.

“Well alright then!” Rita declares, bouncing up from the bed and bustling over to a cooler Nureyev hadn’t noticed before, tucked into a corner and surrounded by piles of clothing. “Ooh, this is so excitin’ I could just!" she squeaks.

“The hot oil, I will say, was a surprise though. Not the usage, but Juno’s reaction. He is a sensitive little thing, isn’t he?” Nureyev pitches it as a joke, something a little lighter than pledging his everlasting devotion to a lady who just last week became frustrated with how much makeup they owned between them and went to throw half of his away because ‘I only have one eye so I only need half of this junk!’ before Nureyev stopped him and forced him to think of how ridiculous that train of thought was.

“Oh." The rustling stops. 

And doesn’t start again, Rita standing still, open cooler at her feet.

“Rita?”

“It's just that — I always do Mistah Steel's hair. But…I guess that's gonna be your job now, huh? As his husband? I guess…I just didn't think…” she says, hopelessly lost. It's only watching for it that allows him to see the way she shakes those thoughts off, visibly shimmying her body like shaking off a cobweb and straightening her spine against the idea that this marriage could change her relationship with Juno.

A relationship tried and tested over the course of twenty years and one Juno treasures. Bullying Nureyev into hot oil treating his hair was proof enough of that.

“If it helps,” he says delicately, “he compared me to you constantly. Nothing I did was right, not the oil itself or the temperature, or how I applied it, or the way I wrapped his hair after — honestly between the criticism and the whining I will be glad to leave it to you!”

The first correction had been thoughtless, like Juno couldn’t believe he had to say that Nureyev was doing it wrong. ‘ _It's just, Rita always_...’

‘ _Rita usually_...’

‘ _Rita does it —_ ’

“Juno. Dear. May I ask why Rita is not the one treating your hair?” Nureyev finally snapped, his voice a counterpoint to the gentle massage of the oil into Juno's scalp.

Juno sighed, and then forced out an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, Nureyev. It's just — we're going to a movie tomorrow and I want to look good. She worries about me. So I want to look...I want to look like she doesn't have to worry so much anymore. I want to look like I’m okay."

He had been taking her out for ‘secretary’s appreciation day,’ despite the fact that she was no longer his secretary. It was a tradition as old and their partnership and one Juno insisted on keeping. He wanted to surprise her.

“You never dress up this nice for me,” Nureyev had pouted, succeeding in his goal of making Juno snort indelicately and shaking him out of the dour thoughts that had begun to creep over his face. 

"Well, see — when I wanna look nice for you, I don't wear anything at all," Juno quipped back immediately and, really, Nureyev had no choice but to risk staining his shirt by leaning down to lay several smacking kisses on Juno’s brow.

The soles of Rita’s slippers scuff the floor, bringing him back to the present and the tense line of her shoulders where her back is still deliberately to him. Nureyev doesn’t need to see her face to know the basics of what must be happening. Smoothing on a brave face over a painful realization and pulling together the threads of her forceful cheer.

“Rita?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just, uh, havin’ a little trouble with this bag of kelpwhats! That’s all,” Rita says, her voice suspiciously thick.

“Rita...” He gentles his tone into something calmer than he feels. “Come sit down, it’s all right.”

“But it ain’t!”

And when she spins around, fluffy pink robe all aflutter, Nureyev can see the lost look she was trying so desperately to will away burst into tearful bloom. 

“It ain’t okay at all because you’re doin’ his hair now and he tells you secrets and you were askin’ me about stories but soon you’re gonna know ‘em all cause they’re all gonna be about you!” She presses her tiny hands to her eyes and hiccups just one sharp sob but it’s enough to get him moving, resting his hands millimeters away from her elbow and spine, not touching, but close enough she can feel the suggestion.

“I’m sorry!” Rita cries, “I’m just going to miss him so much!”

“He isn’t going anywhere!” he races to assure her. “I can’t imagine we’ll have time for much of a honeymoon, what with the Captain’s timetable. I...Rita, I am not going to _take_ him from you.”

He expects her to throw herself down on the bed like she did earlier, but to his mild surprise she sits primly on the edge and struggles to find her composure, hands still over her eyes, her nail polish a deep blue sparkled with silver stars that Nureyev remembers Juno cursing over last week.

“Not like that! It’s just — for so long it’s just been us, and then it was us and the crew and now it’s gonna be Mistah Steel and you and it’ll all be different! And different ain’t bad, I know that! Workin’ for the boss, every case was some kind of different and then we tried to help win an election and that was different and then we had to fight robots and then I had to fight Mistah Steel and that was all very different and interestin’ and then we came here and _everything_ was different and we got the Captain and Mz. Vespa and Jet and Mistah Steel’s got you but it’s just him that’s got you and now you’re gonna have him and —!”

Nureyev grips his panic and shoves it deep down and away. Those emotions aren't useful at the moment. He will deal with them later. “Rita! Breathe! Can you do that for me? Just breathe for a second.”

After several deep, gulping breaths she stops shaking like she might come apart at the seams.

“There now, how do you feel?”

“A little cold and a little soggy and a little like I’ve got a rad-roach stuck in my throat,” she croaks, turning her head to scrub her face across the sleeve of her robe.

Rad...roach…?

No. Nureyev is not going to ask. He asked Juno about Martian rabbits and regretted it. He has fought against an actual, squishy, tentacled anthropologist turned Martian amalgamation and it lived in his nightmares for a year and change, and now he is Not Asking about any other Martian peculiarities.

Other than the one he wants to marry, of course.

“Do you know why I’m here?” is what he settles on.

“No, Mistah Ransom, besides a bunch of other things, that’s the one thing I couldn’t work out. I ain’t anywhere close to bein’ old enough or mean enough or anything else enough to be Mistah Steel’s mom, so mostly I think you needed someone to talk you into it or to sit still long enough to let you talk yourself into it, and between you and me I don’t think I did a very good job,” she sniffles.

There is no ‘first rule of thieving’ about courage. There were rules about intentions and confidence and how to con even yourself into believing your own mystique. But if Peter Nureyev were to think of himself having a metaphorical well of courage, he would no doubt peer into an echoing chasm with only the thinnest layer of brackish liquid at the bottom. Still, he draws on it now. “I misspoke, earlier. It’s not just your opinion that is important to Juno, Rita. _You_ are important. You and him, you’re...well. You’re a family, and I could hardly — I couldn’t —” The words trip over a tongue that feels hollow inside of his mouth leaving him at a loss.

Peter Nureyev is never at a loss for words. Language is his first, best defense. Better than a costume, better than make up, better than a blade. The first rule of thieving: there is a shared language that exists between every single person, if one cares enough to find it. Curiosity, arrogance, compliments, confidence — these are not just emotions but languages in and of themselves. You can get anything from anyone if you just learn how to talk to them.

Rex Glass found Rita’s language the second he laid eyes on her.

But Peter Nureyev doesn’t want to coerce, or coax or anything of the sort. Peter Nureyev wants, for once, to be honest and truthful and let her see him for who he is.

He wants.

He has to ask.

“And if you ask Mistah Steel to marry you, you’re askin’ him to make a new family,” Rita’s voice wobbles, and without thinking Nureyev reaches out to grab her hand in his. Small and soft and vaguely damp, with perfect blue nail polish.

“That’s not it at all! If I ask him to marry me, Rita, I am asking to be a part of _his_ family. A family which includes you. How could I possibly ask that of him, without knowing if you...well...if you would have me too?”

And there it is. Squeezing from his heart up his throat to splatter out between them, messy and raw as the honest, unkind truth always is.

As Juno’s best friend and chosen family, Rita is the one person who stuck with him through almost twenty years of hard knock life by being completely unwilling to be pushed away. Or maybe just unwilling to risk the unstable job market offered by Hyperion City. But the point stands. Why in all the worlds would Rita want a Nameless Thief to be her family? 

“Oof!”

Rita’s bed, Nureyev realizes when he finds himself tackled into it, is much softer than the mattress he shares with Juno and, like Rita herself, smells almost overwhelmingly of sweetness and vanilla. It’s what he imagines sleeping on a bed made of cake must be like, and honestly, it suits her. The second thing he is aware of is the weight on his chest and surprisingly strong arms wrapped around his neck. Her hair wrap has subtle pinstripes he hadn’t noticed before and whatever is on her hair smells like coconut and now he’s hungry in addition to being embarrassed and awkward and cracked open to expose the raw center like some...sort of…egg.

Perhaps he should plan for a midnight snack.

Perhaps Rita would want one too.

Tentatively, he wraps his arms around her in turn. 

“You really mean that?” Rita says, muffled by her robe and his shirt. “You’d wanna be part of my family, Mistah Ransom?”

Her voice is still the wavering, tentative thing born of her despair and hope combined, and Nureyev didn’t think he would miss her shrill confidence but he feels wrong footed without it. Juno would know what to do, or say. Juno would know how to comfort her. Juno is not here.

“I guess you could think of it less like losing Juno, and more like gaining…” He searches for the right words, and when the part of him that is Rex Glass and Duke Rose and a million other men find them he doesn’t hesitate. “...a best-friend-in-law?”

Rita lifts her head so quickly and so much force that Nureyev just barely manages to keep her from breaking his nose with her forehead. “Oh! Oh, ‘cause a couple shares everything, right? So really, it’s more like Mistah Steel is sharin’ me with you! So really, it’s like you’d be gettin’ a wife _and_ a **_Rita!_** Wow, Mistah Ransom that’s such a good deal! No wonder you wanna marry Mistah Steel! Well, along with all the other reasons you wanna marry Mistah Steel, which were really very good and made my heart sing and —” 

“Rita, dear, if you could focus?”

“Right! Sorry!”

“I believe I still need _your_ answer, before I ask for his.”

“Mistah Ransom.” She scrambles off of him, and allows him the time to sit up as well before she takes his hands in hers. Her grip is strong and sure. “I’d be real glad to have you in my family. Truth is, Mistah Steel’s a good man. But he ain’t an easy lady to love. ‘Til he lets you, that is. And that’s how I knew I could trust you. ‘Cause sure, maybe Mistah Jet and Mz. Vespa thought you were suspicious, and maybe Mz. Captain Buddy has a big ol’ file on you with a lot of question marks but no real answers, but Mistah Steel is the most curious, stubborn, and all together nosy person I know. And I know me! So if he decided to trust you, I knew I could trust him and trust you, too.”

They’re not his speciality, but he tries for another joke anyway. Anything to take attention away from how his eyes have begun to itch with unshed tears. “Given Juno’s track record with relationships, I can’t imagine why.” 

“Me either!” Rita says, with joyful and devastating honesty. “But that’s the whole point, Mistah Ransom. With those other people, Mistah Steel loved them, but he didn’t trust ‘em, and sometimes he didn’t even like them! See, liking someone, and trusting someone, and respecting someone — those are all different things than loving them. And they’re all important. And he does all those things with you.”

Nureyev feels his breath and his heart catch all at once, too sharp and sudden for him to even think of hiding.

This is Rita, after all.

He doesn’t have to hide that part of himself away.

“Thank you,” he says, helplessly, because he has to say something, and the idea of letting his practiced inane, idle chatter take over feels wrong shaped in this fragile, honest moment that stretches out between the two of them.

“You’re welcome, Mistah Ransom,” Rita smiles. “You’ll let me know when you’re gonna ask, right?”

“I promise.”

“Good, ‘cause someone needs to take a picture of the look on Mistah Steel’s face when it happens, ‘cause before he starts to cry he’s gonna be so shocked and then, well, he’s gonna be cryin’ won’t he so he won’t wanna pose for no pictures!” She interrupts herself this time with a massive yawn, giving Nureyev a show of the neon orange retainer nestled against her soft palate.

“Well,” he laughs softly, “I think I should let you get back to your mermaids, Rita.” 

He hesitates a moment before leaning in to press a dry kiss to the center of her forehead, a quick buss of his lips against her skin, slightly oily with the sleep she was enjoying before he knocked.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Rita says sharply, and tugs him forward with their still joined hands until he’s close enough she can let go and wrap her arms around him in a warm embrace. “In this family,” she says, with a great deal of relish and self-importance, “we hug. And I give great hugs, so you’re just gonna have to get used to ‘em!”

It takes him a moment to relax into her. A breath of time to make the conscious choice of allowing himself to be held and to hold her back. Her arms are plush, but solid; they hold him tightly, but not crushing.

“Okay?” Rita hums.

“It’s...nice,” Nureyev says, and is surprised to find he means it.

Beyond Juno, because Juno is the exception to all his rules and has been since the moment they met, Nureyev is not really a handsy type of person. He knows the type of language touch speaks and knows where and when to use it, but it’s usually in the service of some larger scheme or trick. Sustained eye contact followed by a warm touch can cause a stunning cascade reaction of chemicals and hormones in the human body, inspiring feelings of trust and even the first stirrings of love. With the right application of pressure a joint can be popped out of place or a knife slipped between the ribs.

“How long did it take Juno to get used to your hugs?” He asks, more idle curiosity than anything else. The hug begins to feel less like a welcome and more like a balm, the soothing of a hot bath against sore, overworked muscle or a kiss against a cut to make it all better. Nureyev sinks into it gratefully after the emotional exertion of their conversation.

“Oh, about ten years, so you’re already doin’ much better than him!” 

He laughs. “Thank you, Rita.”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mistah Steel. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’re in this together, okay?”

When Rita says it, it's easy to believe. “Okay.”


	2. Juno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno doesn’t snore in his sleep. Rarely, he will talk, indiscernible murmurs or half-words that Nureyev couldn’t make sense of if he tried and are no clearer to Juno himself when confronted in the morning. On bad nights he twists in on himself, pressing his arms to his face and whimpering, high and sharp until Nureyev can soothe him with soft words or a gentle touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this was supposed to be one long fic, but I got impatient and posted the first part. And then Phela decided to be an ABSOLUTE STAR and get the rest edited in the same day. So! Here we are. 
> 
> Again, I would like to give thanks to my team of dedicated betas, cheerleaders and handholders: Rox, Sameer, Ivy and Phela. And a very special thanks to Stes for her help with a very special part of Brahmese culture that I know is of particular importance to SJ <3
> 
> UPDATE: 11/03/2020 - FANART BY CROWNORCLOVER

Juno doesn’t snore in his sleep. Rarely, he will talk, indiscernible murmurs or half-words that Nureyev couldn’t make sense of if he tried and are no clearer to Juno himself when confronted in the morning. On bad nights he twists in on himself, pressing his arms to his face and whimpering, high and sharp until Nureyev can soothe him with soft words or a gentle touch. Mostly, the only way Nureyev can tell when he is deeply asleep is by the way he grinds his teeth, clenching his jaw and causing the most horrid, soul-destroying noise known to man.

Judging by the click of enamel and his own involuntary shuddering, Nureyev can accurately say that Juno is asleep when he slides back between the sheets and arranges himself close, his pounding heart against the sweet curve of Juno’s spine. He aches, not anywhere specifically but with the same type of pain that comes from holding a good stretch. A hurt he knows will be well worth the end result.

Juno’s teeth click together again.

"Shh," he hushes into the top of Juno's bonnet, pressing a kiss there hoping to settle him deeper.

The first time he held Juno in his arms, it was only the press of the key biting through his gloves that kept him from losing himself entirely. He had pretended to be asleep in The Oasis, shifting until the curve of their backs pressed together, just to revel in the heat Juno gave off. Then in the tomb all boundaries washed away in favour of what meager comfort the touch of another person who was not immediately hostile could give. Juno would rarely reach out, but sitting side-by-side on that thin cot — if the touches were small enough, a hand on his hand or a knee knocking against his own, he would lean into them, shifting slow and hesitant until their shoulders touched and their sides pressed flush.

There was a time, after — well, suffice to say there was a time where he believed the memory of Juno is his arms would be all he had of the man. And there was a time he grieved for that and raged against it and all the while held the image in his mind of the beauty marks on Juno’s left shoulder blade: a sharp isosceles triangle which Nureyev had imagined to be a fox’s pointed face, staring out mischievously with all the snark and sass that Juno liked to pretend he was above.

He holds Juno close now, pressing that vulpine constellation to his heart as though he could imprint it there.

Still, although he is exhausted physically from a long day of ship’s duties and emotionally from all that has transpired since, although he is warm and comfortable, and even after he has shifted to slide a thigh between Juno’s own and slot himself even closer, sleep refuses to drag him under.

Rarely is Nureyev's mind not running — filing away details, creating plans and contingencies for those plans. A constant never-ending stream of if x, then y, solve for z.

He shifts again as sweat begins to itch across his skin, the heat that radiates off Juno near-constantly becoming more of a nuisance than a comfort, for once. After several more subtle movements, trying to settle himself - trying to stay with bare skin pressed to precious skin - it takes Juno’s quiet murmur of discontent for him to finally shift away, putting distance between their bodies as he kicks off the blankets and actually welcomes the frigid ship air.

Alright, Nureyev: time to take stock.

Despite his relaxed state, his heart is racing. While his mind is never what one would call calm, now it whirls ahead — jumping from half-finished thoughts, through song lyrics and to the chartered course for next week, before doubling back to finish an idea almost forgotten. It takes Nureyev a moment to place the near-manic headspace and he bites back a vicious noise of frustration when he does. Now that the nameless and amorphous fear that held him frozen has been soothed, he’s just...excited.

Nureyev rolls in place, reaching for the small flashlight and notebook he keeps on his side of their bed, wincing when Juno mumbles unhappily at the disturbance.

The pages fill up almost faster than he can write, and he thinks for a moment about taking a capture with his comms to send to Rita, but he only has the bare outlines of his ideas and she has likely fallen back asleep by now. Her words have done more than settle him, they’ve given Nureyev back the clarity of focus he sorely missed these last two months and now his mind is doing what it does best; narrowing that focus to create an actionable plan based on current knowledge and circumstances, and then two contingencies for that plan and then five other plans with their own contingencies — just in case.

“Baby?” Juno’s voice breaks through the constant, low thum of the ship.

“Go back to sleep,” Nureyev says, but readily throws the notebook aside to open his arms when Juno reaches for him for the second time this same night.

“Mm, I missed you.” Juno curls into him with a throaty hum, tucking his nose in behind Nureyev’s ear and breathing in. Then he sniffs again, deeper, and rears back, his beautiful face scrunched up in confusion. “Why were you in Rita’s room?”

Ah, yes, the perks of a lover one can hide nothing from, what were they again?

He could, of course, deny it. If for no other reason then to see Juno's nose wrinkle and the disgruntled lines that appear between his brows when he glares, or scowls, or pouts. But if the past month and change has taught him anything it's that there is never going to be a right time.

He could wait until he felt more composed, until he had the right words or a plan or felt less like he's been scraped raw and hollowed out from the head to the heart.

But Juno isn't really _asking_ if he was in Rita's room. This is Juno's puzzle-piece voice, the one he uses when all the clues are coming together to form a damning picture. 'I know you were there and now it's up to you to tell me why before I start making up my own reasons,' his tone says, implying that no one will like the reasons he gives.

“Rita’s?” Nureyev says anyway, partially just to try it but mostly so Juno will roll his beautiful eye and — it might be silly, but Nureyev very much loves that he doesn't wear the eyepatch to bed. That he allows Nureyev to see his whole, expressive face uncovered and unchecked. For when he rolls his remaining eye, the muscles on the left side respond too, the eyelid twitching to show the matching blue of the gel insert that holds the socket shape while keeping it moist and clean. He has several of them, chosen specifically because, with the exception of when he needs to change them out for cleaning, they feel like absolutely nothing at all.

“You smell like that god awful perfume she wears, she has it as a laundry soap, too.”

“Well that does explain some things,” Nureyev mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“Hm?”

Juno glares at him, but continues over the interruption. “And, when you come back from seeing Buddy you're calmer, like she's gotten you to stop worrying about everything for a minute, but you're wired right now. Only person I know who can get someone so worked up so quickly is three doors down."

“Love...”

He grimaces and shifts himself to the side, and Nureyev feels the ring box in his pocket shift too. He is not enough of an amateur to hold his breath, but he must give away something, show some miniscule tell that send’s Juno’s eyebrows arching toward his bonnet. “ _And_ you’re always messing with something in your pocket. At first I didn’t think anything of it because you collect things without even noticing, and so you’re always having to sort through what you’ve taken to put them back, but that’s not it, is it? You keep checking your pockets to make sure that something is _still there_.”

This time Nureyev’s breath does catch and he doesn’t try to hide it.

“Dear,” he tries again, but Juno is pulling back, out of his arms and sitting up, glaring down at him like the protector goddess he is named after.

“So what is it, Nureyev? You promised me we’d talk about these things! You promised you weren’t going to hide anything from me but you’re getting my sec—, my fri— ...Rita! Mixed up in whatever this is.”

“Juno, please!" Nureyev pleads softly and fumbles, actually fumbles, for the lamp. "I will explain if you’ll give me but a moment to do so.”

"Okay!" Juno snaps back, then deflates, the fight leaving him just as quick as it came. "Okay. I'm sorry, it's just - Rita. She's so smart it's like she forgets to think sometimes." He drags himself out of their bed to begin pacing, and for once Nureyev isn't at all tempted to watch the strong set of his shoulders or the wide curve of his thighs instead of his face.

"Juno, dear, I would never —!"

"I know that,” Juno says, “I do.”

Nureyev's hand closes around the box before he's aware of reaching for it.

"It's not that I don't trust you. Nureyev, I trust you with my life, and you know I take that so much more seriously now. But...if anything happened to her, I don't know what I'd do, so please, I just need you to tell me —"

"I just needed to talk to her. That's all."

"About what? You're not exactly close friends, Nureyev," Juno whirls around, and — "What?"

"I wanted to ask her about _this_ , about us. I wanted… Love?"

Juno's frozen. He's staring, unblinking at the ring, nestled in its black velvet box, gold gleaming in the low light.

For a moment, Nureyev isn't sure he's _breathing_.

"Juno?" he asks softly and watches in relief as Juno's shoulders hitch with a quick, shuddering inhale. Mistake. This was a mistake. It has to be. Juno’s face, usually open and expressive, showcasing every thought that runs through his head, is blank and empty in a way that Nureyev hasn’t seen since —

He can’t do this again, can’t drive Juno away. He doesn’t want to be married, and that’s fine, but Nureyev cannot lose him again. "You don't have to answer. Not now, or tomorrow or a year from now, or ever. How I feel for you is not changed by a ring or ceremony," he snaps the case shut and begins to pull it away when Juno jolts into motion.

"Don't!" He lunges after the box, smacking it out of Nureyev's hand and scrambling to catch it. "Give a lady a _second_ , you can't just — I needed to — what is this?" Juno chokes out the shaky beginnings of several sentences, still looking like he's gotten the shock of his life.

Despite himself, Nureyev's shoulders stiffen. "This can't be a surprise to you, Juno."

"I....It is," he says, and his tone is soft now, full of the same gentle caution that Nureyev was feeling earlier. He holds the ring box against his sternum with both hands, like Nureyev might snatch it back.

"Well," Nureyev starts, and fumbles for what comes next. Should he apologize? Ask again? Demand to know how in the history of the universe this could possibly be a surprise to Juno Steel?

It’s not like he’s been especially subtle.

Or subtle at all.

"It's not a good idea, Nureyev," Juno's voice comes out small, and Nureyev nods, tightly, just once.

"No, no, not — this. _Me._ I'm a bad bet, baby."

The knot in his chest loosens just slightly. Nureyev's hurt washes away like the water his spine becomes at the pet name...and Juno is still clutching the box with white knuckles. "Impossible."

"If I say yes," he hesitates and then spits it out all at once, like ripping off a bandaid, "this will be my third engagement, you know? What does that say about me?"

"That you are eminently loveable," Nureyev says promptly and is rewarded by the tension snapping between them, Juno rolling his eye and groaning.

"Be serious," Juno huffs, and Nureyev borrows a bit of Rita-like patience, waiting. Finally he scuffs a foot across the cold floor. “You uh...you’re really not going to ask?”

“Is it something you want to tell me?” It sounds too much like a parry and Nureyev winces as soon as he hears himself, holding up a hand in apology. “I only mean, we don’t need to talk about...them, not if you don’t want to, love.”

Juno shakes his head and begins pacing once more. Nureyev spares a bare second of annoyance for the ambiguity of the gesture. Is it a no? A disagreement? A rejection?

He doesn’t look at the ring again, but keeps the box tucked against his chest, cupping it gently between his hands now as though it’s a candle’s delicate flame being protected against the wind.

Nureyev is too much of too many things not to take that as a sign, regardless of whether Juno intends it to be one.

“You know my brother used to make so much fun of me?” he says all in a rush, eye trained on the floor. “Benten liked to say he had no idea how we were twins, because he dated for fun, different date every day of the week it seemed like, and I would expect every relationship I ever had to end in a ring. Sure, it scared the tar out of me, but I’d fall into person after person anyway, always thinking that this is going to be the one. He used to say I was born with heart instead of skin and I’d say someone had to make up for his lack of one and he’d just laugh and start telling me all about who he was flirting with now.”

“Juno,” Nureyev says, hushed, hesitating, wanting to reach a hand out to try and offer...something. Comfort. Understanding. Anything to take that lost look off his love’s face.

Even now, Juno so rarely speaks of his brother.

“After….after the last time, I thought I was done with it, okay? I didn’t think there was ever going to be someone who was that person for me. And then, there was you. From the second we met, there was you. But I didn’t think — I didn’t expect. I didn’t know you wanted this!”

“I do,” he says, in every sense of the meaning.

Juno stops and forces himself to breathe deeply for a few moments… And Nureyev is almost fooled into thinking he is calm enough to start having this conversation as a conversation instead of a panicked gut reaction.

“Okay, but are you sure?”

Almost.

“Are you sure you want this, with me?”

Nureyev pushes away the frustration, the hurt wants to pulse through his already aching chest. Pushes it away with a careworn heart and reminds himself that this is not about him. Not really. He’s learned to hear, by now, when Juno’s own insecurities take control of his mouth and speak for him; when he starts ranting with harsh and cutting words that may be aimed outward but are meant for no one but himself.

He waits like a port weathering a storm until Juno sighs, a heavy-hearted noise of disappointment.

“You seem to forget, I’ve ‘bet’ on you before, dear. And won.”

“Not every time.”

“Juno,” Nureyev tries to say it gently, struggling briefly against the urge to go to him, to crowd close and take Juno in his arms. But Juno’s shoulders are still haunched up by his ears and the wrinkles Nureyev longs to kiss away are as present as ever between his expressive brows. He wants to say it doesn’t matter. To brush it away. He says, “I don’t care,” instead and knows it to be the wrong thing when Juno snorts and begins to pace again.

“Really? Because I kinda feel like you should! I...I hurt you. I promised you things I couldn’t give and I let you down. How do you know I won’t hurt you again?”

Nureyev tries not to snap his reply. “From what I understand, you didn’t want to hurt me then, either. You wanted to hurt you, and did a wonderful job. Is that what you want now?” He fails.

But he must have gotten his point across, because Juno stops again. “No! God, no, I don’t want that. I want…”

“What." Nureyev forces himself to gentle his tone, to relax his own shoulders, to breathe. How does Juno Steel _do_ this to him? How does this one man wash away decades of training, habit, and artistry from him and leave him so vulnerable?

“What do you want?” he asks. He keeps it simple, biting back the flood of adoring promises that want to follow, but the truth has long been that when it comes to Juno Steel, whatever he wants is his for the taking. Nureyev’s trust, his truth, his loyalty, his sense, and even his heart.

“I want you. I _want_ this,” Juno says, so soft it aches. “But I don’t know if I can trust it. I’m not the person I was when we met and I’m lucky enough that you seem to like who I am now.”

“I love him, in fact.” Nureyev doesn’t stop himself from reaching out now. “Juno, come here. Please.” He sighs in relief when Juno all but collapses next to him.

“I’m just — God, Nureyev I’m so scared. What if I change again?”

He means, _what if I change into someone you couldn’t love_ , and beyond how deeply proud Nureyev is that there is a Juno Steel in front of him that can say that, openly, with his hackles down and his huge heart on display — there are no words that exist in any language Nureyev knows to tell him how unlikely that is. He shrugs, “What if I do?”

Juno scoffs. “I’m serious! You already know I drink too much and I’m a self-centered, obsessive workaholic with a persecution complex who can’t let anything go and who’s never been able to have a healthy work/life, personal/professional balance, and if you need any proof you just have to look at Rita because she’s been my secretary and best friend and next of kin and basically all I’ve had for fifteen years and I haven’t even been able to tell her that until recently!”

“Juno...” Nureyev swallows a gale of inappropriate laughter. It’s completely not the time, but he can’t help but remember the similarly ruthless way that Rita laid out Juno’s faults just as lovingly as she talked about his virtues.

“I just, I really don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m trying, I’ve been trying so hard to be better, and I’m scared witless that I’m going to wake up one day and be the same bitter, broken person I used to see in the mirror, the one who didn’t care about himself and pushed everyone away because he thought the best way to protect people was by keeping them away from him and...Nureyev, what if I make you hate me? What if I trap you with me and you hate me?”

"That," Nureyev says emphatically, "will not happen."

"You don't know that, baby, we —"

"Juno," Nureyev interrupts seriously, "That. Will. Not. Happen. I know it won't because I have fallen in love with you so many times. And, I have also had moments where I have made the conscious choice to keep loving you, despite all reasons to the contrary."

He wavers, and Nureyev, greedy — a thief to the very core, does what he does best, pushing him that final two percent. "I know you. And I like you. And I trust you. And I love you. Even past all points of common sense. Because of who you are."

Juno hiccups out a laugh that sounds suspiciously wet. "Nice proposal, Nureyev."

"Hush,” he smiles, feeling his own teeth sharp against his bottom lip with how wide it is. “what I am trying to tell you, is—"

"Nureyev,” and how Juno can be so commanding while still sounding on the verse of tears, he will never know, “I get it. Now, shut up and give me my ring."

Oh.

Oh! "I believe you still have it," he says delicately.

The bed dips as Juno squirms. "I mean, properly. Give it to me properly."

His breath catches. "Juno, forgive me, but...are you saying?"

"If you’re asking, then...yeah."

“Well!” Nureyev takes the box and hesitates, unsure. He moves at first to get on one knee, but then thinks better of it, settling back beside Juno and taking his hands with the ring box folded safely between them. “Juno,” he starts, and swallows around the thick nervous vines that grow suddenly in his throat. “Juno, the very first day we met you called us partners and I called myself your other half.”

Juno makes a noise of quiet upset but when Nureyev looks he’s muffled himself by sinking his teeth into his plush bottom lip.

“I want to be that for you, with you. I want you by my side, watching my back and looking over my shoulder on every adventure we find and the ones that find us.”

“God damn it, I cannot believe you’re doing this while I’m in my pajamas,” Juno moans under his breath.

Nureyev winces, reminded again of the haphazard nature of this entire scene. Juno in his overlarge sleep shirt, bleach-spotted black with the word ‘ _Fabulous_ ’ in faded writing across the chest, and ratty boxers with bullseye’s in the shape of hearts. “I can wait for you to get changed, if you’d like?”

“No, keep going.” Juno squeezes their hands together and Nureyev relishes the rough of his calluses and the strength in those hands.

He takes a deep breath, bolstered by Juno’s bravery, his eagerness, his love. “Juno, I want to be part of your family. I want to truly be your other half. Will you marry me?”

Juno tugs at their joined hands and clears his throat ineffectually, croaking out, “C'mon, Nureyev, you know my answer."

Nureyev tugs back. "I believe I’d still like to hear it, if it’s all the same to you." He did not go through two crucibles this very night to not receive a clear answer to the question that has been plaguing him for almost two months. Absolutely not.

He waits a beat, then another as Juno tries to force his faltering voice to continue. As his thumbs start to rub fast, anxious circles around Nureyev’s knuckles. “Juno,” Nureyev takes a chance, and moves their still joined hands to open the ring box. “Will you marry me?”

No pretty words, no pleas or promises. Just an offer, a question which begs an answer.

Juno sobs sharply, tears beginning to leave messy tracks down the handsome curve of his cheek and the wide bridge of his nose. A moment that feels like forever passes, Juno trying again to speak through the sudden tears and choking on his words.

“Juno? Is this- ? Are you- ?” He falters, hearing his own voice now tight with nervous worry.

“It’s fine!” Juno’s strong voice cracks and wavers. “I’m fine. I just, I didn't see it before, not really. God, it's so — where did you even find something like this?"

"I...I wandered into the shop quite accidentally during that reconnaissance mission on Ganymede," Nureyev admits, flushing as he remembers slipping into the shop itself, paying more attention to the ebb and flow of the people and buildings in the square then his own surroundings. He’d glanced down casually, ready to feign distant interest in whatever was on offer and saw the ring instead. A simple gold band, plain but for the jagged teeth of raw, cloudy blue sapphire that peeked through the middle, cutting through the gold as through erupting from it. As though the brilliance, even unpolished as it was, could not be contained.

He bought it then and there.

Juno sputters, "But that was months ago!"

"It may have escaped your notice, dear, but I am _very_ serious about this." He untangles one of his hands to reach forward and brush the tears from Juno’s cheek.

"Oh yeah?"

"I even have a receipt!"

"What, like you bought it?” Juno turns his head slightly, muffling a wet laugh into Nureyev’s palm. “As in, paid real money for it? I don't believe you." He clears his throat, finally sounding as through the storm of emotion has passed.

"Please, Juno.” There is no elegant way to move closer, seated as and where they are, but needs must. Nureyev scoots forward and guides Juno towards him with the barest pressure against his cheek. “Would I lie to you?"

They’re close enough now they could rub their noses together and he does so, scrunching his face up playfully. "Yeah, yeah. Show me the receipt," Juno says, grinning.

"Juno!" Nureyev protests, acting wounded.

Juno purses his lips together, squirms a little, before he breathes, "Show me the receipt, and I'll say yes."

Nureyev feels the flush deepening and taking hold in his fair cheeks, bare of the makeup that would normally hide it. "Well, I'm sure I have it _somewhere_."

“You lost it?” Juno gasps, lighting up with petty joy. “What if I’d hated it? What if I demanded you get me a different ring before I said yes, huh? What then?”

“It is not lost, it’s only been temporarily misplaced.” It’s difficult to sound stern when faced with Juno’s radiant smile, with the way his body trembles through fits of helpless laughter that comes and goes. “And if I may remind you: you still haven’t said yes.”

“Well, you haven’t shown me the receipt.”

Nureyev groans, a touch dramatically but from a place of genuine frustration. “Juno, divine, please, I beg you: put me out of my misery.”

“I’d love to,” Juno shrugs, blithely, “I really would, but see, the thing is —”

Nureyev sighs, and feels nervous sweat begin to prickle across his skin again.

“—you even had a _receipt_. ”

With a muttered curse that sends Juno into another fit of nasal, snot clogged giggles, Nureyev pulls away, standing on shaking legs to leave Juno where he sits, bouncing one leg excitedly and cupping the open ring box in one strong hand. It hits Nureyev then that through all this, through the rushed and impromptu proposal, Juno clutching the small velvet box like a lifeline, that he has been very careful not to touch the ring itself. And his heart begins to pound against his ribcage, echoing up into his ears and drowning out all other sound.

Nureyev is sure he must look as frantic and driven as he feels in that moment, ripping apart his room without hesitation or ceremony to try and find one small scrap of paper from nearly two months ago.

He would be quite panicked, too, if not for the way he holds tight to Juno’s own words.

_If you’re asking, then yeah._

_You know my answer._

There is nothing, has been nothing, that suggests Juno will say anything but yes — and Nureyev knows, deep in his thrashing, rebel heart that if he isn’t able to find it, Juno will still say yes.

Except...in the same part of himself that looked at Juno standing tall against the big, mean world, that saw and recognized the shining moral core that is the immovable soul of Juno Steel and realized that even if Rex Glass or Duke Rose or Monsieur Dauphin did not love him, Peter Nureyev did — he knows that this means something to Juno. Something special.

What it could possibly mean, he hasn’t the faintest idea.

But it’s important to the lady he loves, so Nureyev goes through discarded outfits and purses, pocket after pocket, knowing he must find that _damned_ receipt in the same way he knows he _must_ still have it.

By all the stars in the galaxy, why must his hands borrow things without his brain’s permission?

As many forms of currency as there are languages, keys (both literal and figurative), pens, doodles, lockpicks, hair pins, compacts, garotte, medication pens for allergies and hormones, a harmonica, lip stain-stick-pencil…

“Nureyev.”

He hums distractedly.

...mints, a coffee house punch card three visits away from a free drink, plasma cutter, contour, a hair dryer, pain relief, glow sticks, sewing kit, soldering kit, first aid kit, _The First Illustrated Guide to Intergalactic Travel, vol. III_ , sand…

“Nureyev!”

“Yes, dear?”

...four different last wills and testaments for whichever alias he happened to be wearing at the time, a mini blow torch, a kazoo, three vials of poison in non-fatal doses, nail polish, a crystal figurine of a peacock that sparkles even in the low lamp light, menstrual products…

“I found it.”

His left hand still clutching a small bell, Nureyev whips his head up. “What? Where?”

Ah.

Gently, Juno dangles the thin golden chain that Nureyev had bought to match over his open palm, as if ready to catch the ring should the chain suddenly snap. A small piece of paper flutters by the clasp - the aforementioned receipt, attached to the necklace’s tag.

Right.

Buddy had sounded the retreat and he had needed to leave quickly. By then, the ridiculousness of what he was doing had sunk in and Nureyev had half a mind to ask for his money back and leave empty handed. But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way the gold would look against Juno’s skin. How the sapphire was rough, with sharp edges and still breathtakingly gorgeous in spite of — no, _because_ of it. He’d left, with no gift bag, jewelry cleaner or other unnecessary froof, just the ring in its velvet box tucked safely in his pocket. And the receipt the sell-clerk had insisted he take, tucked into the box.

Juno whistles low, his brows arcing up. “Well, I can’t say you cheaped me, baby.”

The noise that leaves his throat is not a word. It’s half a word, mangled and choked until it has seized up and died. He can feel rapidly cooling sweat still gathering on his forehead and upper lip and shivers. A part of him, a large part, feels inexplicably like weeping. Thankfully, Juno long ago issued a rule stating only one of them may cry at any one time during their… _poetry readings_ , and Juno has that well in hand for this session.

“I like the necklace,” Juno says offhandedly, still scrutinizing the slip of paper which, had Nureyev known was going to be the key to his future happiness, he would have taken better care to keep unwrinkled and legible. “You should have led with that, it’s thoughtful.”

“Yes, well,” Nureyev, to his own horror, squeaks. Clears his throat. Tries again. “Well I didn’t think you would want it on display all the time. You’re a rather private person, dear.”

“Am I?”

Nureyev hums rather than remind Juno of all their many arguments — sorry, _discussions_ about how being forthcoming is not the same as being open, and how using intimate details as weapons is not the same as being vulnerable. He knows from those discussions just how deep the rushing waters of Juno’s mind run. How what Juno says is an infinitesimal fraction of all the things that run through his mind at any given time. And he knows how blessed he is, how lucky that Juno chooses to let him in, to give him a bare glimpse of how his fascinating, brilliant mind works and processes and feels.

And Juno feels so much, so deeply about...everything.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s amazing.

Finally, Juno takes the ring in hand, holding it gently as he runs his fingertips along the polished surface and rough stone. “You know -” His voice falters and Nureyev’s hand clenches tight around the bell. “You know I’m going to hit this on everything right?”

He abandons the bell, which rings out one beautiful, clear note, and crawls back through the mess of things, the taken, misplaced, discarded things that make up all the faces and voices he wears. Peter Nureyev's armour, his trade, his thoughtless habits all strewn about until he is close enough he can brace his hands on Juno’s knees and rub his thumbs through the coarse hair Juno keeps meaning to shave but hasn’t either due to laziness or lack of time in the bathroom. He likes to take his time when he feels like primping and Nureyev loves him even when he's hogged the single bathroom for forty minutes. “Juno.”

The right knee jitters under his touch. “It’s gorgeous, Nureyev. And it cost a lot of money and I’m going to wreck it. That’s almost a guarantee. You sure you want me to have it?”

Last chance to change his mind, Juno means.

Be sure about this, Juno means.

Don’t break my heart, Juno means.

Carefully, deliberately, holding Juno's gaze with his own, he rolls his eyes and Juno barks out a rough, unsteady laugh.

“Juno,” he says, again, and lowers his lips to the jittering knee in a soft, lingering kiss. “It’s just...a thing. Just like everything else in this room except me and you. It was expensive. It does mean a great deal to me. And when you wreck it,” Juno snorts in quiet disbelief at the emphasis he puts on ‘when,’ “I will likely tear out my beautiful hair trying to find you a new one. But I will. Because the symbol is not worth more to me than what it symbolizes.”

Juno sniffles and then hiccups a laugh. "I love you, Nureyev...no matter whose name you're wearing or whose life you have on. I am so, stupidly, gone on you. You know, I had no idea you were going to be here, on this ship, when I chose to leave Mars. But then you were, and you know what? I wasn’t surprised. It felt like, well of course you were here. Like fate. Like wherever you were, that’s where I would be too. You, and Rita, hell, even this ship — it’s home to me. Nureyev, I want that future you talked about, the night we met and after…” He licks his lips and forces himself forward, so very brave even with tears brimming in his soft blue eye. “I want the far away planets and adventures you promised to take me on. I wanted them back then, too…” Juno trails off and looks down, clearing his throat.

“I will ask as many times as you let me, dear. Will you -”

“Yes,” Juno hiccups. Tears have begun again to collect at the corner of his eye. “God, if you need to hear it that badly, then yes. It’s been yes since I saw the box, hell, Nureyev, it’s been yes ever since…it was always going to be yes.”

Juno’s hands shake with emotion and twitch reflexively closed when Nureyev reaches for the ring. Regardless of how his heart is leaping within his chest his own hands are steady, which means very little, he finds, when he fumbles to find the necklace’s clasp through vision blurred with the tears he is rule-bound not to let fall.

For all the lead up, the act of actually, finally sliding the ring into place on Juno’s heart-finger is overshadowed, eclipsed, near erased by the feeling of Juno’s hands cupping his face and his lips sliding blissfully against Nureyev’s own. His lips, always at least a little chapped from his habit of biting them when he’s researching. His lips, wide and soft and slightly tacky with the balm that he clearly stole from Nureyev’s side of the bed earlier.

And metal, cool against his cheek but warming.

Those hands move to sink into his hair, keeping him close and urging him up with that stubborn hard-won strength, up off his knees. Quiet, giddy laughter stutters between them, half-muffled by the way they can’t seem to stop stealing small sips of each other's mouths as they rearrange their clinging limbs into something more comfortable. Nureyev finds himself in one of his favourite positions: Juno lying beneath him, tucked in against their pillows with his strong legs and arms wrapped tight around Nureyev, clutching him close like they intend to keep him there. Drowning in the feeling of Juno’s body against his own, his quiet, breathy sighs and moans and, now, new, the obvious bulk of Nureyev’s ring on his finger as his hands roam.

Juno pulls away, raising his hand to admire the band, gleaming gold just as beautiful against his deep, cool brown skin as Nureyev knew it would be, and his breath hitches just once before he drags Nureyev back into a deep kiss. Languid, is the word for it. There’s no rush, no intent driving them towards any particular end. It’s almost meditative. Nothing but the press of Juno’s lips against his own and the air shared between them. Almost nothing — Juno looks back a second, third time, and Nureyev moves his lips across the sharp of his stubble and cheekbone, murmuring the gentlest of protests.

"What are weddings like, on Brahma?"

Nureyev cycles through a great many different words. "Depends on the caste, but generally they're large and rely heavily on symbolism," he hums, shifting more of his weight onto Juno so he can tuck his face into Juno's neck, peppering his pulse with the occasional sucking kiss just to feel him shiver.

"And?" Juno prompts, sounding far away. Nureyev smiles, nipping at the column of his throat to bring him back into focus instead of trying to summon every single small detail of Brahmese culture he's teased out of Nureyev's brain over the course of their conversations.

"There is a candle we light together, to guide us to our new life. And a cord, wrapped around us like a figure eight to represent our bond, from this life to the next. Coins we gift to each other to promise prosperity, and a veil to drape over us after the vows to show we've become one."

"Wow," Juno breathes, shifts slightly like he wants to get up, but chooses instead to bury his hands in and fidget with Nureyev's hair. "That seems...nice. Really nice."

"What are weddings like on Mars?"

"Depends on the caste," Juno snorts. "But generally, they're...lavish. Spectacles really, there's even a wedding channel on the Kanagawa stream network, following couples through everything from the proposal to the big day. And of course, if the added pressure makes one of the nearly-weds crack and try and murder the other, well, that's just good TV isn't it?"

The words hesitate on his tongue and Nureyev procrastinates saying them with more kisses, soothing the tension left by the mention of Mars out of Juno's frame until he's loose and content again.

“You see, on Brahma, weddings aren’t just about the couple,” he starts.

“You mean the point isn’t to show off our eternal devotion?” Juno teases.

“No,” Nureyev smiles back, “not to show it off, though Brahmese culture is still very traditional about things like divorce and remarriage.”

“What, you mean like—”

“Couples are encouraged to court. The suitor arranges for dates, serenades their intended, brings gifts and when they are sure, they bring their whole family over to meet their intended’s family and ask for permission to marry. Marriages on Brahma are about the unity of families. When death is so prevalent, though war or — otherwise, you treasure the time you have with the people you love and you honour their place in your life…” he trails off in mounting horror.

“Nureyev?”

“I may have made...a mistake.”

Under him, Juno tenses.

“No, love, not - not like that,” he hastens to explain, while struggling out of Juno’s increasingly clingy hold.

“Kinda seems like that,” Juno says, clearly hurt and not hiding it.

“Wedding’s are about family, Juno,” Nureyev stresses the point, looking around for his pants.

“Yeah? And?”

“And I spent a not inconsiderable amount of time this night convincing yours to allow me to ask you in the first place, so I _don’t_ think she is going to be pleased when she hears I did the one thing she asked me not to!”

“What? Nureyev!” Juno grabs onto his hands.

“It was a simple request, Juno. All I had to do was tell her I would be proposing!” She isn’t going to take her permission back, she isn’t. Rita isn’t that petty, but —

“Baby, did you ask my secretary for _permission_ to marry me?” Juno demands, voice carefully even and eyebrows raised expectantly.

Oh, there are just wheels within wheels to his missteps tonight aren’t there?

“No,” Nureyev replies, just as carefully.

“Are you sure? ‘Cause it sure sounds like you asked her for permission to marry me.”

“I am very sure I did not ask for permission to marry you,” he repeats the exact words back, and then, “I asked for permission to join your family.”

“...And what did Rita say?”

Nureyev squeezes his eyes shut, shoving down the incredulous, near-hysterical laughter that still wants to bubble up. “She said yes.”

Juno sucks in a slow breath. “Okay, good,” he says, just a bit strangled. “And you were supposed to tell her when you did.”

“I promised.”

“So now you want to go back to her room in the middle of the night and...what?”

Nureyev winces. “Apologize?”

Juno snorts, and holding Nureyev’s eyes, deliberately rolls his, relaxing back against the pillows and drawing Nureyev slowly back down with him.

“Juno,” he tries.

“Yeah, no. My fiancé can tell my family about this tomorrow.”

“Juno...”

“Nureyev. Please,” he smiles, and it feels like whatever force keeps the galaxy spinning comes to a stop alongside Nureyev’s heart. “Rita, and — and the rest of the god damned world can wait...one night.”

He isn’t ashamed to say his breath catches in his chest. “Oh, Juno." He allows himself to be drawn close, sighing the words against his intended’s lips. “You romantic fool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not writing a sequel, but I will say that there is a fic I am planning which resides in this universe. 
> 
> Juno Steel and the ghost of wedding gowns past.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks goes out to my amazing beta and cheerleading team. To Rox, Sameer, Ivy, and Phela. If not for all your hard work and handholding, I would have given up. 
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
